


fingerprints smudging the stars

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Kylo Ren, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hux Has Issues, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Armitage Hux, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Scent Marking, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: For years Hux has carried himself with the poise and power of an alpha, his true endotype hidden with the help of fake scents and powerful suppressants.But on the cusp of Starkiller's completion, something slips through the general's carefully crafted failsafes and threatens to undo everything he's built up over the years.Hux has never been one to accept help, but with an unexpected problem mounting—not to mention the interference of unpredictable alpha Kylo Ren—he might have to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this for a few weeks now and am excited (and nervous) to finally share! 
> 
> I feel like heatfic with these two has been done so well by so many talented writers already, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone until I tried it out myself. I really wanted to delve into Hux's mindset and how he might have internalized some terrible things over the years, and how that would influence his reaction when it comes to unexpectedly going into heat. I'm still new to this so I hope my characterization is okay!
> 
> Hope you guys like it!

As far as anyone has a right to know, Armitage Hux is an alpha.

He carries himself with all the poise and power expected of one, after all. Impeccably sheathed in the colors of the First Order, he commands the fealty of all who set foot aboard the _Finalizer_.

And none of those thousands strong, not even his closest officers or contemporaries, will ever see him as anything else. He’s taken measures to ensure this, so that nothing of his original endotype ever has a crack to slip through.

Principal of these measures sits halfway between his wrist and elbow, imperceptibly embedded beneath the skin. Even if Hux presses his fingers around where he knows it to be he can’t feel anything shift or bulge at his touch. He hasn’t physically seen the implant in decades but that’s almost for the best—he prefers that it _invisibly_ keeps the defects of his type at bay, allowing him to pursue his goals unfettered.

Thrice a year a droid administers a new dose in the privacy of his quarters, its memory reset and all medical records left untouched until Hux needs it again. It works seamlessly, leaving no trace of his most guarded secret.

Exactly the way he requires it.

Omegas are scarce in the First Order, and with good reason. Minds subject to disarray without the proper correction have no place within its ranks. Fortunately, Hux had gotten out of such a fate before the worst of his type had set into his bones and risked permanent disfiguration.

The thin piece of plastic under his skin remains one of the few good decisions ever made in his youth. The suppression of those most loathsome traits had not only spared him unnecessary strife in his Academy days, it’d opened up the future for him, enabled him to attain the rank he presently holds.

An omega could have never become General.

* * *

Hux wakes up at 550 hours and shuts off his alarm before it goes off. His mind rouses quickly, already sharp and hours ahead, recalling everything planned into his schedule. He checks the data pad left on his nightstand late the night before, briefly noting any new messages before setting it back down, to await him as he makes himself presentable for duty.

Hux has long perfected the cadence of his morning routine, motions rote and practiced as he moves from bed to refresher, rinsing off the filth of sleep to reflect his sharpness of mind in his appearance. Today feels little different than any other cycle, and once he’s finished under the sonic he takes a moment to look over himself in the mirror.

He keeps exquisite posture even in the privacy of his quarters, shoulders squared and spine straight. He used to have to test it periodically—stand up against the wall, ensure the feet, shoulders, head and hips all aligned against it—but now he holds it perfect, without issue nor correction.

Hux slides his hands down the front of his body, checking for any change or abnormalities and only pausing in his clinical prodding when he reaches below his waist.

The barest pinch of fat clings to his hips, normally well hidden beneath the straight lines of his uniform. The only signs of his type, so easily covered in fabric, hidden from schemers trying to take him apart for exploitable weaknesses. Aside from this part of his morning routine, he doesn’t pay mind to these slight curves, mostly 7tamed by his slender build.

Of course, suppressants aren’t enough to make others believe he’s an alpha, _no_. While they neutralize his heats and obfuscate his scent, they can’t muster up the heady musk oft held by those in high command. Thankfully, pheromones are easy to synthesize by those with the knowledge and willingness to accept the credits of the Order. 

Hux peels away the casing of the palm-sized black cylinder before popping off the top. He sprays a little on his wrist and sniffs it testingly, judging the aerosolized scent in comparison to the one he’d used for years. It promises a longer-lasting effect, headier than its predecessor. It smells a little different— he’s not sure if he likes it, it’s certainly _sweeter_ than he remembers—but there’s little harm in trying it out for the cycle. He can always return to his former choice should he end up preferring it.

He sprays around his neck, chest, and upper arms, letting the aroma settle into the vacancy of his scent glands. He tucks the cylinder away once he’s satisfied, shrouded in a liberal cloud of musk.

Hux runs a comb back through his hair and perfects it into the usual style, before finally slipping on his uniform. The undershirt and padded top bulk out his frame before he sheathes it all in the flattering black of his jacket and pants. He tugs on his boots and gloves before moving from the room to the rest of his quarters.

Hux isn’t one to take a heavy meal right before a shift—nor ever. Truthfully he dislikes rich food on all occasions. Such things were like the indulgences of the New Republic, unnecessary and distracting. Brief mollification of the body ’s hungers at best. Hux was beyond such things, better than them. Unflavored porridges and a cup of steaming caf were more than enough to fuel him through the cycle.

This morning, however, he skips breakfast entirely. The deep, bitter taste of the caf is more than enough to fill his stomach as he grabs the data pad and dons his greatcoat in preparation for the alpha shift. The final layers slide comfortably into place, and Hux smiles, satisfied at the pristine portrait of power he assumes as he strides out of his quarters and into the hallway.

The bridge hums with hush activity, each of Hux’s officers perfectly attuned to their duty as he enters. One of them approaches him with a smart salute, heels clicked together.

“Greetings, General.”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Hux tucks his hands behind his back, looking imperiously down at his officer. “Are we en route to Nagilia V?” He recalls a briefing from the previous cycle—a minor warring faction there has pledged loyalty to the First Order, and while ragtag militias add little to their might the planet is stuffed to the gills with desirable resources.

“Yes sir. Arrival anticipated by 1700.”

“Excellent. The principal battalion will be more than ready at that point.I trust Lord Ren has docked in preparation?”

“Yes, he arrived late last cycle.”

Despite himself, Hux curses inwardly. Though he knew of this beforehand, the presence of his unpredictable co-commander— _in name only, really_ —upon his ship always spelled trouble for the general, even when the Order needed him.

Hux glances around briefly, as if expecting to catch Ren out of the corner of his eye, skulking around. He even sniffs a few times, hiding it as a show of approval as the Lieutenant continues reporting on the ship’s function.

Hux has never possessed a particularly keen sense of smell—a boon, really, considering how distracting _certain_ odors could be—but even he picked up on the swampy, oppressive nature of Ren’s scent the moment he’d first encountered the alpha. It reached out, like the fingers of his own invisible powers, trying to curl into every nook, to pry apart the senses of every subordinate just as he did their minds. He used it as a weapon, like he did all else within his grasp.

Hux never let it phase him. He knew the behaviors of alphas inside and out from personal experience as well as his own studies. He was confident in his own abilities to counter Ren’s posturing, never hesitating to remind him of their equal status aboard the _Finalizer._

Thankfully, he detects no fresh traces of Ren’s scent on the bridge. Good. The big, broody alpha is little more than an impediment to the daily function of the ship, and Hux hopes he will stay out of the way for the remainder of the cycle.

Once he’s confirmed Ren’s absence Hux’s attention switches back to his officer, finding his report on the _Finalizer_ ’s itinerary adequate.

“Very well. Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“General.”

The officer bows at his superior’s nod, before returning to his station. Hux turns away, moving towards the center of the bridge, only for a sudden heaviness to tense in his head.

Hux wavers only briefly in his stride at the twinge, used to random minor aches from time to time. A diet of caf and occasionally erratic sleep schedule contributed to this, but it’s never caused too much of a problem for him.

After all, no matter the state of his body, his constitution carries Hux forward without fail.

He dismisses the feeling and produces his data pad from within his coat, browsing the financial reports he’d set down the night before. He’s just about to sink into the comforting figures and formulas when the doors furthest from his slide open, the air suddenly deepening with unwelcome energy. 

 _Ugh_. Hux had spoken too soon earlier. Sure enough, when he turns around he sees Ren thumping onto the bridge, his hands clenched into fists and his robes billowing about behind him. He nearly bowls over one of Hux’s petty officers as he storms through, carrying no respect for the function and personnel of the damn ship where he resides when he’s not off on some bizarre cryptic quest. 

Prickling, Hux turns his head and opens his mouth to tell him off for stomping around the bridge like an insensible toddler, but just as he does a wave of _something_ runs over him, and the ground tilts and jars out from beneath him.

First—he thinks its the ship, bucking underfoot from some sudden attack or accidental explosion, but there’s no alarms blaring above the hum in his ears and none of the bridge crew react.

Secondly he blames it on Ren, on some show of power and pettiness from him, trying to knock Hux off balance and cow him in front of his crew. And while he has no way of knowing for sure the alpha’s at fault, there’s no odd prickle of ozone typically found when Ren decides to show off his mystical nonsense. _This_ feels more grounded, something Hux cared to wrap his head around.

Though perplexed at the exact cause Hux manages to catch himself before he loses balance entirely, legs locked in a wide stance with one hand gripping the console. His greatcoat helps to hide the stumble, but he’s unsure if Ren sees, no reaction visible with the helmet hiding his face. Or perhaps the ghoulish thing _is_ his face. No one aboard the _Finalizer_ , including Hux, has ever seen him without it.

To Hux’s relief Ren doesn’t yet approach him, content for now. He wonders at the alpha’s motivation, as he doesn’t usually bother roaming about the bridge unless the ship is embroiled in combat or he’s found a bothersome bone to pick with Hux. Having him stand around, looming like some ancient statue is certainly unnerving, but it’s better than a confrontation, a silly power-play distracting from the cycle’s tasks.

So he ignores Ren and turns back to his data pad, opening a recent message from General Cantos of the _Agonist_. He scans over its contents, scowling at the contempt he can read in his contemporary’s words. He was resistant even to a formal requisition of both supplies and the ship’s seniortechnicians to further Starkiller’s construction—though Hux knew it was most likely due not to lack nor disinterest in the project’s completion, but rather his own age. Cantos was older, a heavily traditionalist alpha who disliked orders from any who didn’t carry similar seniority. But Hux refused to back down—if need be, he’d put Cantos’ neck beneath the Supreme Leader’s ire, foist any of the project’s stagnation upon him if he still refused to give Hux what he required.

An ache starts to cluster between his eyes as he taps out the thinly veiled retort to Cantos, and he worries his brows with an internal wince. It feels almost like an allergy fogging up his sinuses, like those he sometimes gets down on planets choked with vegetation, but aboard the _Finalizer_ he’s never had this issue.

His eyes flick briefly to the side, catching a bit of black robes in his periphery.

Maybe it _is_ Ren after all. He’s certainly a headache, so it would only follow.

Hux glances once more through his correspondence before sending it off, stowing away his data pad following a final once-over of his inbox. His plans continue to fall into place despite hindrances thrown by the petty, dreams of power and conquest blazing an inexorable path into reality.

He faces out toward the bridge’s panorama of stars, calming as he mentally arranges them in more pleasing patterns. It soothes him to imagine enough power at his fingertips to order even the most defiant among them into place, and consign those that refused to oblivion.

Glowing pride wells up in his chest as a smirk twists confidently on his lips.

Alphas like Cantos would soon learn the consequence of impeding General Hux—their true apex. Their _better_.

Hux turns away—rejuvenated, chin held high—when suddenly the feeling in his chest plummets into his stomach and halts the general in his step.

A sudden sensation of wetness spreads in the crotch of his pants. Hux’s lips part, _mortified._ Flush crawls across his cheeks as he struggles to comprehend it.

What in the _hell_ just happened?

It can’t possibly be. He—he’s not some incontinent _pup_ , he’s a general with an iron constitution and strict control over his body. It’s _impossible_ for something like this to happen. 

He slides one arm out from the sleeve of his greatcoat, holding the front together as he tries to feel between his legs as imperceptibly as possible. Any momentary relief that washes through him upon discovering he hasn’tpissed himself is snatched away the next moment when he feels a warm, slightly slick patch near the rear of his jodhpurs.

Hux struggles to keep his expression impassive even as alarms ring in his head. His eyebrows twitch together in confusion as he rubs the fabric between two fingers. It feels slightly sticky, glutinous, almost like blood. He can’t—can’t possibly be _bleeding_ can he?

Something clenches in the lowest pit of his stomach, and for a moment he really does worry he could be hemorrhaging internally, the stress of command and spearheading Starkiller finally taking its toll. But the pressure in his stomach doesn’t grind or churn like a grievous injury, nor does he feel the accompanying nausea of illness.

So _what_ —

As if to answer his groin shivers, cock twitching of its own accord. Hux freezes, mouth growing dry as horrifying realization dawns over him.

 _No_.

As he stands in shock he can feel warmth pool towards the pressure in his abdomen—small, yes, but _building_. Hux’s head shakes in minute denial, suddenly scraping for a less devastating explanation.

 _This must be some kind of mistake_. There’s no way he could possibly suffer even the _slightest_ symptom of a—a _heat_ , and yet without ever even experiencing one himself Hux knows the signs.

He tries to hold onto hope that it might be a mere side affect of his implant as it nears the end of its life cycle, but as the minutes tick by it doesn’t abate, only building as if someone had stuck a hand through his stomach and squeezed his innards. Worse, the warmth has started to spread from his middle out to his head and extremities, leaving him uncomfortable and sweating underneath his uniform.

It won’t be long before one of his officers notices something is wrong, and even the idea of his lowest ranking subordinates figuring out what is ailing their general strikes him with disgust and dread. Loathe as he is to leave so early into the shift, he must extinguish the problem before it grows worse.

“Lieutenant Mitaka,” Hux commands, drawing up behind where the little beta works at his console. He lifts his head, and if he notices something off about the general, his professionalism doesn’t let it slip past. “Ensure we stay the course for Nagilia V. An unexpected arrangement requires my full attention.”

It’s not an elaborate excuse but Mitaka doesn’t question it. He nods and almost smiles, the soft understanding in his expression still not bred out of him by the Order.

“Of course, sir.”

 _Good lad_. Out of all his immediate staff Hux put the most trust in the younger beta to keep the cycle running smooth. If he weren’t already overfull with warmth and agitation he might allow himself to brim with pride.

As the Hux moves to depart he finds Ren has shifted slightly from his previous roost. Part of him wonders what business the alpha even had on the bridge in the first place—if he had any _at all_ , apart from drifting like a phantom and failing to intimidate. He does turn slightly as the general approaches, mask tilting like he expects Hux to say something.

He regards Ren only with a disapproving sniff, brushing past him. They knock shoulders together briefly—a typical interaction, but Hux usually doesn’t feel as off-balance as he does right now.

Thankfully he doesn’t fall, legs still carrying him forward and away from the bridge, from his officers and Ren’s bothersome presence.

For a moment Hux considers going to the medbay, still hoping it may only be a side-effect or pseudo-heat, but quickly ejects the thought from his mind. Exposing _this_ to a human medic is out of the question, as is having his designation uncovered and permanently put down on his record.

He won’t do it.

Hux turns briskly down the hall in the direction of his quarters, quickly resolving to deal with his body there. If the symptoms are temporary, he’ll be able to tackle them on his own.

He makes it nearly halfway before the sensation inside him suddenly mounts and he nearly doubles over with a grunt. He keeps his balance, not willing to keel over like a _boy_ unable to hold in his sick.

Hux wraps one arm around his stomach, the other squeezing into the uniform fabric just atop his chest. He hides both efforts underneath the fall of his greatcoat, trying to lean inconspicuously against the wall—though anyone who knows the General _at all_ will realize that leaning and resting means something is _very_ wrong with him.

The cool, sterile blue light of the hallway helps ground him somewhat against the heat, as does its dearth of people. He’s made it far enough in the direction of his quarters that not even patrolling troopers stroll by. Still, even as he stands there, trying to control his breathing and will away the heat clustering in his abdomen, he hears the _thud_ of heavy boots striding through the hall in uneven steps.

Not the pace of a trooper, nor an officer.

Hux tips his head to the side, eyes narrowing as they land upon the lamentably familiar swirl of black robes and glinting mask.

Ren has _followed_ him, the mongrel, unwilling to take even the simplest of orders from Hux. Normally he would pose a nuisance and nothing more, sent off to seethe and brood with a couple dismissive words, but with the heat eating away at his stomach Hux has neither the time nor the patience to entertain Ren much further.

“Surely you have business elsewhere,” Hux forces the authoritarian tone back into his voice, tendon in his throat bulging with effort. “If there was something you need to say to me, _Ren_ , you could’ve done so on the bridge.”

The alpha ignores him, stopping to face Hux head-on. The hair on the back of Hux’s neck prickles, now berating himself for his decision to lean against the wall. Now he’s trapped between an obstinate alpha and the durasteel behind him.

“You need help.”

Ren says it so plainly, like it’s some objective truth that only he’s privy to, and that gets Hux’s hackles rising.

“Preposterous. I do not.” Ren knows nothing of what’s going on inside him. Snoke values Hux’s mind too much to permit his apprentice to carelessly prod around inside it. And even if he can vaguely sense something is amiss with Hux, the idea that he would ever solicit Ren for _help_ in matters that don’t just require brutish violence is laughable.

From visual cues alone it must look like he’s suffering from some form of illness, which—much as he hates appearing weak, _especially_ in front of Ren—is a far preferably assumption to the truth. With his coat and back against the wall he can hide the dampness in his pants, and though the color in his cheeks is even more noticeable with his pallor, it’s easy to blame it on normal fever.

Ren leans in, and through the mouthpiece on his mask Hux hears a soft huff. The general wrinkles his nose in disapproval, when a sudden realization strikes him and his mouth grows dry. He’s _forgotten_ , with his nullified glands and untrained nose, what must have given him away already.

Surely Ren can _smell_ the heat on him. Even from within the damned helmet of his.

The thought agonizes in Hux’s chest. If Ren _knows_ it could ruin him, rend his career into tatters. And surely Ren would chomp at the bit to do such a thing—to snatch the _Finalizer_ and Hux’s clout within the First Order, to shame him as an omega, as a weak-willed _breeder_ and nothing more.

Suddenly, the visions that had haunted his youth, before the Academy medic had slipped the implant into his skin at his father’s behest—of a dismal future spent sequestered away from power, mated and meant for little more than fertility and sex—roll back to the forefront of his mind like a storm.

“General?”

Hux snaps out of it when Ren speaks once more, managing to fend off the gallingpremonitions and banish them back to his subconscious.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” He sneers, showing off a peek of teeth. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to—as I imagine you do, no matter what you state otherwise.”

With an imperceptible inhale Hux manages enough strength to push himself away from the wall and stay upright. There’s enough space between himself and Ren for him to slip past, now facing the open hallway with all his thoughts focused on getting to his quarters and dealing with this problem.

Ren’s hand suddenly closes around his wrist and the moment it does sensation sparks up Hux’s arm like it’s been shocked. His head snaps back to stare at Ren and he freezes. The feelingstabs forth into his chest, sinking into his stomach just as it rises up into his brain and for a moment he can’t see right, vision blurring on the edges as the warmth in his pelvis hums in victory.

For a moment he floats, teetering between collapsing to the ground and falling forward against Ren’s bulk, before snapping himself out of it. He bares his teeth and grabs the forearm caught in Ren’s grasp, tugging it sharply.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, “don’t ever touch me.”

Much to his surprise, Ren lets go and lifts his hand away, though it moves slowly as if it pained him to do it. The spot where Ren touched Hux burns at the memory, twitches for more. The general snags the cuff of his coat and pulls roughly, closing the creamy gap between it and the hem of his glove.

Hux half expects Ren to try to grab him again, brutish creature that he is, but he lets Hux move away and reestablish respectable space between them. His hand still holds half-raised, leather wrapped around his fingers crinkling visibly as it partially shrinks into a fist. The sudden crackle of a breath through Ren’s vocoder is Hux’s cue to leave, and he turns on heel to get away from him. His exit is less elegant than he hopes it’d be, as his vision wavers again and he nearly loses his balance. But Ren doesn’t follow him, doesn’t offer his assistance any longer even as Hux takes a moment to breath and reorient himself once more before darting down the hallway in the direction of his quarters. 

Fortunately he’s able to keep upright and attentive enough to make it the rest of the way. It takes him two tries to punch in the access code with the slight shake of his fingers, but soon enough he’s darting inside, returning to the space he’d left not more than an hour ago.

The door to his quarters snaps shut behind him, sealing Hux off from the rest of the ship. It provided little comfort, but at least it meant no one could witness his undoing. A light anxiety lifts off his shoulders at that, but does little to abate the rest of his frustration.

Hux pulls his arms out of the sleeves of his greatcoat, heavy gaberwool suddenly too restrictive. He hunches in on himself andclutches tightly around his middle, still unwilling to completely relinquish the bulky clothing even as he simmers beneath it.

The fire in his loins has spread further. It tightens the muscles in his abdomen and circles around to his lower back, weakening his legs as he struggles towards the bedroom. The lights hover at sixty percent, normally enough for Hux to navigate but with streaks of his vision shimmering it’s harder and he bumps into his couch and side table with a numb hiss. The greatcoat soon sheds from his shoulders, pulled down by its own weight, and he nearly trips over its folds as he finally stumbles through the bedroom doorway. Everything drags, including his own breath, like hypergravity tugging on every little molecule inside him.

Even with his coat gone he’s boiling, heat lashing out in tendrils, dragging the rest of his body into it. He tugs stupidly at the collar of his uniform, fingers fumbling with the clasp. He yanks at it a few more times, with louder grunts of frustration, before finally managing to pull it open and unzip the tunic halfway down his chest.

The brush of circulated air against his skin is welcome, and quickly Hux undoes his uniform the rest of the way, slipping it off his shoulders. He tries placing it back onto the morning’s hangar but it slides onto the floor, right where he leaves his jodhpurs as soon as he’s done removing them.

 _Breathe_ , he reminds himself as he wavers in only his regulation top and undergarments, the black fabric thin and sticking to his body through sweat and slick, uncomfortably molded to his skin. He crawls shakily atop the bed, kicking aside the heavy comforters. He usually kept layers of blankets upon the bed to keep his slim body warm but _clearly_ he’s no need for them now. He sits atop the fitted sheet, his back resting against his pillow as he stares at where his legs slightly part. Already he can see the damp spot in his undergarments, glistening— _fresh_. 

General agitation settles into proper worry once Hux realizes he has no idea what to do in this situation.

He’d started on suppressants after his presentation but before ever falling victim to a heat, and though he’s picked up cursory information over the years he never thought to prepare for something like this. His medication is never supposed to fail, _should’ve_ never failed.

He grinds his teeth together, wondering whether the droid had administered the last dosage incorrectly, or if there’d been a fault in his implant or the manufacturing of the suppressants. He wants somebody to blame, to take apart and _punish_ for this indignity against the Order’s commanding officer.

An ache spikes through his pelvis and he winces, fingers digging into the flesh of his abdomen. _Later_. He will figure out who to hold responsible once he’s finished tackling _this_.

Hux tries slowing his breathing, in hopes the physical sensation of air filling and deflating his lungs will ground his racing mind long enough for him to come up with a plan.

At first he thinks to call the droid that takes care of his implant, request some medication, but he’s likely far too entrenched in the heat for emergency suppressants to do the job. Instead Hux rolls onto his stomach, thinking more pressure on the most affected areas might help repress them, but the moment his groin digs into the mattress he realizes his mistake. The fabric of his briefs rubs against his swollen cock, friction only building the pleasure between his hips.

Hux props himself up on his knees to try to correct the feeling, disregarding the obscene picture he must present. Leather squeaks between his fingers as he clenches his fist and he suddenly remembers he’s still wearing his gloves, having forgot to remove them in his desperation to disrobe.

He uncurls his hand and inhales and then, with his forearm so close to his face, he detects something deep and musky unlike the clean scent of his sheets, clinging around his wrist like a cuff.

Hux’s eyebrows cinch and he lets loose a cry of anger, grasping the edge of the glove and yanking it off, tossing it over the edge of the bed.

 _Of all the dirty, debauched_ tricks _—_

The spot where Ren had grasped him smells. Even though the alpha had too been wearing gloves, the leather held his heavy scent and now Hux _smells_ like him. He draws away from his wrist in horror, sniffling and huffing aggressively in an attempt to get it out of his nose. He curls inward and scrubs the spot against the bed, hoping to thin it out, to get it off of his skin.

 _How dare he. How dare he._ Hux seethes, now scratching at the spot and leaving short pink lines in the wake of his nails. He feels infected, tainted by Ren and his damned lack of self control.

The moment Ren grabbed him is the only thing he can recall with much clarity, now, as his vision flutters and falters. The weight of his palm and barest, dextrous twitch of fingers. Power and scent both held in reserve, but enough to send an unwilling shudder through Hux’s body. He hates how the moment swims to the forefront of his mind, refuses to quell his body’s burning.

The damned spot still smells and Hux bites it, digs his teeth in as far as they can go. The pain distracts from the burning in his gut and the blood that pops into his mouth tastes tangy and bitter and so different from the weathered musk of Ren’s scent, the youthful vigor marred with power beyond the years. Wild and raw like the skin of Hux’s wrist, now bloodied and shredded by claws and teeth.

It almost feels like sabotage, a odorous curse sunk into his body. Like Ren _knew_ leaving his mark upon Hux’s body would cause it to behave in such a way. He grimaces at the thought of the absent alpha, how he’s managed to worm his way under his skin—but the scent of his own blood helps distract Hux somewhat, even if surely he must look like a madman.

Luckily there’s no one here to witness it.

The very thought fills Hux with revulsion as he spits a little blood back onto his wrist. He’s fortunate he managed to make it back to his quarters before anyone other than Ren noticed. Much as he detests idling in his quarters when there’s work to be done on Starkiller’s construction, the self-imposed isolation is necessary. After all, he cannot risk soliciting a living being to _help_ him, not given his position within the Order and how many of his contemporaries like to bark at his heels, waiting for him to fail. Not following the encounter with Ren.

Under no circumstances can word get out that Armitage Hux is not the alpha he’s pretended to be.

Hux swallows, reluctantly realizing what he must do in stead if he’s not to take a partner to bed. He has no aids to ease the process, obviously, nor any balms or creams—nothing but his hand to help him along and a dispenser of tissues besides the bed.

“It’s enough,” he assures himself aloud, removing his remaining glove before pushing the waist of his undergarments a few inches down.

Hux keeps himself half-propped on his elbow, head hanging between his shoulders and looking at the underside of his body. He watches his hand disappear into his briefs, fumbling around beneath the fabric as he feels out where he needs it most. He clutches his cock, feeling it twitch in his palm, but even that pressure only nips at the ache of need in his pelvis.

Deep flush spreads from his cheeks to his neck as he considers touching himself _there_. He remembers that vile moment on the bridge when he’d first soiled the fabric of his pants, his body reacting like an animal preparing to breed rather than a general on duty, commanding a respect thousands strong. The memory of the shame is almost enough to bite back the arousal, and certainly stops the other hand that’s been inching slowly behind him.

 _No. He won’t do it_.

Hux brings the knuckles of said hand up to his mouth to gnaw as he tries just jerking his cock, but the act garners only a few pitiful spurt of come before he hits the proverbial wall. The heat still mounts, more slick collecting in the damp hang of his shorts.

“Blast it— _no_.” Hux curses, half-muffled by the fist in his mouth. He can feel a bead of fluid trickling down the back of his thigh, unimpeded, and it maddens him. When it reaches the crease between his knee and calf, he can’t take it anymore.

Reluctantly he slips his fingers between his legs and touches where they meet his groin. He slides his hand further, palm brushing the underside of his petite balls as he traces the heat in his pelvis to one concentrated point. Warm slick touches his fingertips and he hesitates, wrinkling his nose.

_How vulgar._

He swallows roughly before taking a deep breath.

As much as Hux hates it—writhing on his own fingers like some desperate omega slattern—he pushes forward. Only because getting this over with means he’ll be back on the bridge and resuming command sooner.

He’s survived uncountable unpleasant situations before this, tolerated shame and degradation if it meant attaining new heights. He will take care of this heat and then it, like everything else, will fade into unimportant memory, to be discarded as he moves onto grander things.

Hux’s fingers twitch awkwardly inside him, sending a groan up his throat that he keeps tightly locked behind his teeth.

He just hopes _this_ will finally be enough.

* * *

Hux’s fingers are starting to seize up. The skin of his palm is damp with sweat and slick, chafed with effort. He pushes open his fluttering eyelids, trying to clear his head and re-ground himself.

He stares blearily at the chrono, mourning the hour lost to such a futile effort—or had it been two hours? He’d looked at the time when he’d first entered his quarters, he’s sure.

Hux’s managed to come three times, soiling a fistful of tissues in slick and semen, but the heat inside him still curls and licks and feels _worse_ than before. It spreads like a living creature, like some awful planet-born parasite trying to eat him from the inside out, trying to drive him mad with lust before it kills him.

He hunches over himself on the bed, hand between his legs and stroking at where his cock hangs between his thighs. His other hand stays between his asscheeks, twisting its fingers inside him, though both his arms ache tremendously with effort.

Hux breathes heavily against the pillow cradling his head, eyes falling to the fabric next to his mouth wet and worried with teethmarks.

It’s all so _aggravating._ He’s been at this for so long already but it feels like he’s barely started. His cock still throbs hard in his palm and slick still bubbles between his asscheeks, untempered by even his best efforts. Hux isn’t unused to thankless tasks that must be constantly redone—as a general with a fondness for micromanagement, he oft finds himself in such a position—but this is different. There’s no organized database to pull from, no subordinates to delegate—nothing but a building heat and pain that’s starting to feel insurmountable. 

His throat feels dry and tight. He probably needs to re-hydrate but if his arms hurt and numb this bad then he certainly doesn’t trust his legs to function. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, trying to muster up saliva, but all the moisture seems to have concentrated below the belt, siphoned into his arousal.

For a split second he reconsiders his earlier plan to go to the medbay, or at least summon the droid that tends to him, request painkillers or a fluid drip or something to mitigate the wear on him body. But Hux doesn’t know if he can bear even a cold, guileless droid seeing him like this.

He rolls onto his side and tries to breath deeply. Stray memories resurface with the walls in his mind compromised, visions of white sheets cradling a body—smaller, still alone. Threaded with tubes and tethered to machines. Pathetic. _Weak_.

Hux pulls his lips back against his teeth. He’s not so useless that he can’t get through a simple _heat_ on his own. If even the most base, mindless omegas can weather this, than certainly an individual of his caliber and constitution can. 

 _You are Armitage Hux_ —he thinks, steadying— _you are better than them, than all of them, more apex than any alpha, they will all come to cow at your feet, this will not best yo—_

“General.”

Hux jumps at the sound, the voice rolling in unwanted from the doorway. His head snaps up, unable to pick much out of the darkness, not with his vision swimming—but he’s _there_.

He doesn’t know how Ren got into his quarters, but he sweeps to the bedside like a heavy shadow, filling the room with unfurling blackness and—to Hux’s dismay— _scent_. The general picks up on it before Ren’s form even coalesces like an awoken nightmare before him, the stifling odor filling into the room creating an immediate sense of restlessness Hux feels in his skin.

Despite that he tries to sit up as quick as he can and assume an appearance of power even without his proper livery. Hux sets his teeth tightly together, grinding the slight overbite caused by his pinpoint canines, and steadies his shaky hand into the hem of one disheveled blanket. He yanks it up over his partially bared chest and the hand pulling up his undergarments, trying to overwrite his sudden anxiety with offense at Ren’s intrusion.

“What are you doing? How did you get in here?”

It echoes like the best command he can muster in such a state, but he’s not surprised when Ren doesn’t immediately reply. The alpha never did listen the first—or first _hundred_ —times Hux told him things of importance. But he _is_ surprised that—when the alpha jerks with movement, robes fluttering behind—a bolt panic suddenly strikes through his stomach.

“Ren,” he croaks, fingers digging into the blanket, “answer me.”

But the alpha advances in silence, and when he gets close enough that Hux can see Ren’s hand raised up from beneath the folds of black cloth the feeling of fear overwhelms him.

Hux kicks at the bed, half rising off of it as he scrambles away from Ren. He tries to swing his legs over the opposite edge of the bed, to wobble to his feet and put as much space between himself and the intruding alpha as possible, but the sheets wrap around his ankles as he does so. He winds up scrabbling at air alone as he falls into the space between his bed and the wall of his quarters, scraping the side of his head on the latter before tumbling to the floor.

Hux groans and lets out a harsh cough, pain radiating from his knees and temple. Any hair left in its usual gelled state falls over his forehead as he curls in on himself—before remembering _Ren is here, he saw you_ and scrambling to push up on all fours.

 _Get up_. _Get up, get him out, get up_. He repeats to himself. If only his body would obey his commands, instead of panicking like an _animal’s_. Blast it, he’s not _afraid_ of Ren, he’s not, he’s not—

A hand suddenly grips too hard around his bicep, and Hux cringes as it pulls him upwards. He half expects a blow or to be tossed back against the wall but instead finds the bed underneath his palms, and he digs in tightly as his body dragsback atop it. He pulls his legs up from where they dangle over the edge, bringing his knees up to his chest and lifting his head.

His vision teeters from heat and the impact to his skull, but he can still make out the shadow of Ren leering from the corner of the bed. His hand hovers, lifted from Hux’s arm but wavering, as if unsure whether he should touch him again. The general narrows his eyes and digs his elbow into the bed, propping himself up in a meager show of height against Ren’s significant presence.

“Get out,” Huxfinallyrasps, fingers kneading the front of his shirt. “N…Nothing requires your attention.”

_Ren can’t be here._

This violation is far too much, especially when Hux has no idea what the alpha could be thinking. The incident in the hallway had been bad enough, but the presence of Ren in his quarters and the second touch to his arm has Hux trembling with anger.

He thought he had made it clear before that the unfortunate weakness of his body is _his_ alone to behold, and Ren—impudent, obstructive, _volatile_ Ren—has no clearance, no _right_ to witness him in such a state. Hux wishes he could have him apprehended, dragged from his quarters like the intruding child he is—yet that would risk exposing his failing to _others_.

He tries to order his mind, to concoct a proper plan to get Ren out of his room on his own. True his own instinct as a tactician feels even further now than it had earlier, when he’d first fell upon the bed and tried to deal with the heat, but he’s not _useless_ , not even close.

“What, is that silly mask of yours broken? Speak, Ren, unless you want your _master_ to hear about this interference.” Perhaps bringing the will of the Supreme Leader into this would dissuade Ren from whatever he’s planning to do here—or at least get him to _explain_.

Finally, a long, low noise ripples from within Ren’s helmet—a noise Hux can’t consciously put a finger on, but one that sends a loathsome little tremble through his body.

“ _Interference_ ,” Ren begins, “is not the word I would use to describe my intentions, General.”

“Oh?” Hux glares up at him, one strap of his undershirt falling down his shoulder as he tries to straighten himself further. “Then would you care to explain _why_ you violated protocol, entered my quarters with authorization, all to witness something you have no right to?”

“No right…” Ren murmurs, sounding doubtful. “You…I have _reasons_. They’d be plain to anyone not so deep in denial.”

“ _Denial_ ,” Hux scoffs, “denial of what?”

“That you’re in heat. You’re an omega, you need to—“

“ _Don’t call me that!_ ” Hux shouts, managing to cut Ren off even with his usual intensity hampered. His eyes blaze, fury momentarily countering even the mounting arousal.

“Don’t you ever, _ever_ speak to me like that again.”

Ren stays still, belying the turmoil of wrath no doubt simmering beneath. Hux waits for him to snap, almost _craves_ it—he wants Ren to give him an excuse to plant his fist through that stupid mask. It’s what he deserves for _daring_ to degrade him like that.

But Ren doesn’t lash out, doesn’t rattle the room with his power and shatter the fixtures. He doesn’t seethe or rage or choke Hux with invisible fingers. He lifts his hand, _yes_ —and a shameful part of the general twitches with fear at that—but he touches his own helmet, fingertips gliding over the rounded crown.

“You haven’t left my mind, General. I tried to push you from my thoughts but I can sense—I can _feel_ you from across the ship. You won’t _leave_.” He lowers the hand from his helmet, curling it into a loose fist. “If we’re to clear both our minds I must…take action.”

The implication doesn’t go over Hux’s head—not when Ren stands in his room, scent filling every corner, trying to invade the general himself in this most vulnerable state. Not when Ren has called him— _that_. Hux’s mind reels in disgust, even as the depravity in his loins sings out for the alpha.

“You _beast_.” He clenches his fingers together, the veins in his wrist tensing. “Don’t you dare even _think_ of such things. I swear, if you touch me again I’ll have you thrown off this ship for your treachery.”

“What can you do in this state? You can barely hold your head up.” Ren mocks, though it’s softer in tone than typical of him. “A leader of the First Order can’t be incapacitated like this.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Hux snaps, punching his fist into the bed. “ _Brilliant_ observation, Ren. As if I wasn’t aware I’ve been writhing on my bed in a pool of my own fluids!”

His stomach turns immediately at the slip of foul language, expressing out loud the miserable state he’s in. How badly does he wish he really _could_ disassociate completely from this wretched carcass, brain continuing on with the cycle’s tasks until his body ceases its fit of arousal.

He stops to take a few breaths, suddenly feeling winded. Blood thumps in his ears, far too loud, but even so he can still hear the heavy exhales fed through Ren’s vocoder.

“You’re a wreck. You’re a mess, and if you continue on this way you’ll wither and suffer until you die.”

Hux’s lip snarls over his teeth at the alpha’s words. Regardless of what he looks like, Ren has _no_ right to talk down to him like that.

“You _wretch_ —“ Hux tries to sit up, to square his shoulders and make up for his lack of uniform. Heat or not, he’s a _general_ , and Ren cannot disrespect him so plainly without consequence.

“If you’ve come to do nothing but insult my current state then leave me be. That’s an order.”

“No.” Ren states. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to help you.”

“Like hell you are!” Hux vigorously spits despite his thin breathing, levering a finger straight towards the alpha. “The last thing I want is to be _fucked_ by some faceless weapon!”

He’s losing hold on his usual perspicacity, more vulgar words slipping into his speech thanks to Ren grating on his already frayed nerves. He glares at the apathetic features of the mask, hating their immobility. Hux’s body could tremble and fall apart, ruined by its own biology, but self-important, _chosen_ Ren could remain impassive and untouched.

The sudden disparity between them roils Hux’s already disturbed stomach. He’s never felt _beneath_ Ren, not even with all his sorcery and arrogant displays of power, not even with the knowledge that he was _born_ an alpha. He’s not about to start now, but Ren’s immutable presence troubles him.

Hux pulls the hem of the blanket back up and over his chest, cradling the black fabric to his bared skin. The weight and texture feels right against him, grounds him.

A sudden _hiss_ and _click_ redraws Hux’s attention. He lifts his eyes up from the hand clutching the blanket to look up at the other man.

To his surprise he sees Ren beginning to remove the helmet. Dark hair falls out from inside it and cascades down his neck, settling in curls about his pale throat and jawline.

He looks—Hux blinks rapidly, trying to wrap his head around what he’s seeing. The face of Kylo Ren—Jedi Killer, apprentice to Supreme Leader Snoke, scourge of the _Finalizer’_ s functioning equipment—shouldn’t be this way.

If this is a heat delusion, then his mind needs to be more creative. Ren looks far too _normal_ considering the monstrous thorn in Hux’s side he’s become.

Hair falls around his face like the torn edges of space, skin almost ethereal in contrast. Blots of pink dust around his lips and eyelids, tinting his face with surprising youth.

There’s altogether too much softness, too much asymmetry. Spots break across Ren’s complexion, marring the skin, erratic as exploding stars. Dark eyes observe the general, swimming with unexpected depth, like pits of void comfortable enough to sink in and stay.

Hux might comprehend, for a moment, the reason for the mask. Then the heat spikes, unwinding through his nerves and stealing coherency back from him. 

“F-Fuck—“ Hux gasps, back arching up from the sheets. Circulated air just barely kisses his back before he’s flopping back down, out of breath. The flecks of shimmering color in his vision slowly sort themselves out, image of Ren’s revealed face slowly solidifying back together. He stands in the same spot but feels bigger, closer than before. Hux tilts his head to the side and covers up his mouth, unable to meet the alpha’s eyes again.

So Ren didn’t look like a monster. So Hux might even consider him mildly attractive, certainly better than some of the other human alphas he’d encountered in his time. But he’s still _Ren_ , still unacceptable and unwelcome and _out of the question_.

His palm dampens with his hasty breaths. Out of the periphery he can see Ren—still silent, unmoving after removing his helmet. The bed dips softly when he sets it down atop the crumpled comforter, but only after a couple, _slower_ breaths does Hux trust himself to look back at Ren.

He sees clearly the way the alpha’s lips move, so much pinker and softer than he could have ever imagined.

“You must choose. I can either take you to the medbay or tend to you here. There isn’t another option.”

Of course there was. Between humiliation in front of a medical team and allowing Ren to use him for his filthy pleasure there _has_ to be another way. Surely, out of the billions of souls in the galaxy, there has been at least a single omega able to tolerate this without intrusion. Otherwise he can’t imagine the type would have ever propagated and become part of the norm. Logic asserts he can get through this—shaken, perhaps, but unscathed.

Ren’s face almost makes Hux believe his offer comes from a genuine place— _almost_. But the years of arguments and posturing stop him from accepting that. Ren _hates_ him. He wants Hux degraded, suffering for his disregard of Snoke’sfavored apprentice. He wants to bear witness to Hux’s undoing, to play a part in destroying him on the most fundamental level. And this is the perfect opportunity.

So Ren must be lying. _Manipulating_ him, drawing him into a false sense of security with his amiable words and that damned face. Hux knows better. This alpha only wants to take credit for his shame, but he won’t allow it.

Hux can take care of himself, as he’s taken care of himself all these years. If only Ren would leave him be, he could suffer the indignities of his own body in private.

“Are you truly not satisfied? It must be some vile fantasy of yours.” He weakly gestures at himself, at the sheets damp with sweat and slick. At the undergarments half peeled off his skin. At the distemper he’s fallen into. “Isn’t it enough to see me like this?”

“Not when it’s a matter of life and death, General.”

“P-preposterous…you expect me to believe you?”

“I don’t care if you believe me, I care that you accept my help. You don’t realize how bad it will get. I can feel you fading already…” Ren murmurs, voice serious, “You won’t survive this alone. Much as things are… _difficult_ , I wouldn’t want to feel your dying breath, knowing there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

He really does sound youthful, without the vocoder scrambling his natural timbre. It’s oddly soothing, even as he foretells Hux the inevitability of his death like a damned prophet. He never believed Ren could sense the future, and he’s not about to start now, even as heat contorts his mind and opens it up to illogical things. Such as the admission that Ren _doesn’t_ look forward to his end.

It’s all lies.

“It can’t possibly get that bad,” Hux speaks between panting, brushing damp hair back off his forehead. “You’re exaggerating.”

“You still resist the truth.” A flicker of disdain runs over Ren’s lips. “Do you _want_ to die this way, General? Right on the cusp of the New Republic’s fall, twisted and fevered in bed? To let some _other_ , some miscreant take that victory from you?”

 _No_ , Hux thinks. _Never_.

He won’t allow it. His body can’t steal all that he’s worked for from him—nor any future order he’s about to brand into the galaxy’s woeful ferment. But he can’t— _can’t_ submit to Ren and brandish all the vulnerability of his most hated traits like they signify nothing. The heat urges him, forces him, threatens him with fever that may slowly take him apart—but he _can’t_.

He shuts his eyes and breathes deep even as adrenaline quickens his lungs. Ren could be wrong. There’s no way his heat could get that bad so soon. It’s bad now, _yes_ , but it will pass, like all weakness, all disorder. He can overcome it as long as he just keeps breathing as evenly as he can. Steady. _Staccato._ Under control.

If only Ren would stop distracting him.

The bed sinks as the alpha rests a knee atop it, then leans forward on the opposite hand. Poised, as if ready to strike out from the darkness at unsuspecting prey. Hux’s eyes snap open in alarm, his fingers raking into the sheets.

“Be…be still…”

“No. The longer you deny it, the harder it will be to come back. Untreated heats leave lasting marks.” Ren’s eyes rove over Hux’s body, as if he could see the damage writ inside already. The general draws his legs in closer, skin prickling.

“You…don’t you come any closer…” Hux hisses, trying to narrow his twitching eyes. “I’ll…if you come any closer, Ren, I’ll…”

Usually he puts himself above petty violence. But his heart leaps in his chest when Ren starts to craw atop the bed towards him, _invading_ this most intimate part of his quarters, the only place he allows himself the vulnerability of sleep. His arms are numb but he has enough strength to lash out, instinct leaving three long, pink scratches across Ren’s cheek.

There’s a split second of odd expression on the alpha’s face, something flickering in the pale, impassable sculpt, before he seizes Hux’s raised wrist and slams it back against the headboard.

Cold fear suddenly drops into his stomach, tainting the angry warmth in Hux’s loins like impurity leaching through a slat of pure stone. Ren’s dark eyes and uneven features menace him now, the aggravation of his scent shifting to something sinister.

As Hux gazes back, _up_ at Ren as he looms over him, he finally feels it—the helplessness of an omega laid out before an alpha who could take all that it wanted from him.

Those visions race back like a recurrent nightmare—Hux had always imagined his first with an alpha as an act of _violence_ , claws and teeth stripping away all agency, knot plunging deep to tie him to a life he never wanted, designation he never asked for nor had any say in. Now again they darken his future just as Ren’s shadow eclipses his hapless body. 

Hux expects the alpha to stop playing this game of compassion and hold him down now—to quit pretending that this is for the good of the Order and keep him pinned with the Force or those heavy hands, to pry his legs open and steal the last shred of Hux’s dignity, to turn him inside out and shove the shame of _omega_ inside him until it could never ever be clawed out. For all his words, Hux _knows_ Ren only wants him to submit so he could lord it over him forever—cow him on a level so fundamental Hux could never escape it. He shakes despite himself, eyes wide as he expects Ren to pillage him, to finally claim his prize—dominion over his rival, forcibly subsumed by biology.

He only wishes he could put up more of a fight.

Hux waits to be ripped apart by Ren, but it doesn’t come. The alpha only watches him, eyes lingering on his face. Gradually the anger softens, losing cohesion. The grip around Hux’s wrist turns gentle, cradling the bare, inflamed skin as a thumb rubs over one of the ragged teeth marks.

“You did this.” Ren looks back as his finger catches a bit of his blood on Hux’s wrist. “Why?”

Hux swallows roughly, unable to reply.

After a moment his hand falls beside his head, guided down by Ren’s. It dwarfs Hux’s in breadth, fingers curling around the edge of his palm. Ren’s eyes move from the omega’s face to the gently pinned wrist, head tilting down to examine it closer. The hair atop his crown falls, framing his face like a mane.

Hux tries to find the words to tell Ren off, to wound him in this moment of vulnerability, but his throat stays tight, trembling. Ren’s hardly touching him aside from the wrist but Hux feels his presence laid atop him,settling like a weighted shroud.

Hux starts, a truly pathetic sound passing between his lips as Ren leans in close to his wrist like he’s about to bite him, dig his fangs in where Hux had bitten hour ago, to draw new blood to the surface like the complete maniac he was—

But there’s no point or pop of blood, no rake of teeth against already ruined skin. Hux eyelids flutter, catching a slip of pale pink in between Ren’s lips, behind the wiry curtain of hair trailing lightly over Hux’s forearm

Ren—Ren is licking him, like a sorry puppy, as if he knows the marks and blood on the general’s wrist are because of him. _He probably does know_ , Hux thinks, before he shudders at the sensation against his skin. Shame twists in his stomach at the flat, wet press of the alpha’s tongue, and the fact that he enjoys it so.

 _Stars_. What has Ren done to him?

The alpha lifts his head from Hux’s wrist, the disarming softness of his lips now glistening pink. His tongue flickers out, tasting.

“Sweeter than I would have imagine from you…” One corner of Ren’s mouth twitches up. “Part of me expected pure caf to run through your veins.”

“Levity…at a time like _this_ …” Hux croaks. Ren has never _joked_ with him before, certainly would never pay enough attention to him to understand his dependency on caf. Hux really must be delirious now.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if Ren were merely a figment of his delusions.

Gloved fingers drag back through Hux’s hair before Ren apparently thinks better of it, and snags one leather tip between his teeth. He pulls the glove off and lets it drop on Hux’s chest and then he’s brushing through the messy ginger locks at his temple with bare fingers. They’re warmer than expected, softer between the callused spots. Hux doesn’t recall the last time someone has seen his hair down and loose like this. Ren inhales where his fingers touch, before his nose traces down the side of the omega’s face. _Scenting_ him, as if they were a pair of mated lovers—rather than whatever they could call this.

“Ren…”

Hux lies still, limp, unsure of what to do apart from let it happen, and soon he’s tasting his own blood in Ren’s mouth as he kisses him.

It’s rough—the alpha pries open Hux’s lips eagerly, slipping his tongue inside and it’s wet and large and _everywhere_. Hux presses back slightly, not understanding if he wants to push Ren away or tangle him deeper, invite him to steal the last of his untouched insides.

Ren’s scent—dark and smoldering yet young and strong— _smothers_ Hux and now it’s within his lungs, burrowing down inside of him to steep and he shivers. His hips buck up, not of his own accord, his groin brushing up against Ren’s bulk.

Hux gasps when their kiss breaks, lips messy and scraped with teeth. Ren’s palm cradles his cheek, even more warmth spreading through to his skin. How could the alpha possibly be this warm, when he used to look so cold, so wreathed in shadow and impossibly distant?

Hux feels lightheaded, even with his body sunk into the bed, even when Ren rests their foreheads together to keep him in place.

“All this time—General, I believed you were an alpha, you—“

 _I am an alpha_ , some little voice inside of Hux still cries out, even as it continues to drown.

“You must let me take care of you,” Ren goes on, “I don’t know if I—now that I’ve smelled you, _tasted_ you _,_ I can’t—you won’t leave my senses—I can’t focus, I need to be able to focus—“

His words falter, thoughts brought half-formed to his lips. Spoken between breaths into the scant air separating them. It sinks into Hux, then, as he watches the man above him.

Even Ren with all his Force abilities and attempted asceticism is as much a slave to this as he is, what little rational thought the alpha has left now drawn away by the duties of instinct—that animal part of the brain that drives him to mate, to fuck and knot and _breed_. But at least Ren is suited to a beast, a creature prone to base needs of violence and sex. Hux is supposed to be more, a triumph over the limits of his type.

_Oh, how he’s been proven wrong._

He watches, as if through some veil of deniability, as Ren’s hands drift over his chest,

pushing the loose hem up to Hux’s armpits. They drift over where his ribs stand out in his skin, highlighting the fragility of each attempt to steady his breath. Hux can’t believe he’s allowing Ren to do this, to cradle these most vulnerable parts of himself in hands he’s seen dismantle all life around him. Ren moves to trace the planes of his stomach down to where they start to flow into his hips and he’s seeing everything Hux is, everything he’s hidden withimpenetrable depth for years.

And he’s far too powerless to do a thing to stop it.

Ren’s hand reaches Hux’s hips, cupping their shameful fullness before pulling at the band of his undergarments and dragging them down to his knees. The alpha settles on Hux’s leg, fingertips brushing against his inner thigh. It’s so close, resting in the humidity between his legs. Hux’s cock stiffens, properly freed from its confines. Ren’s palm twitches, squeezing the soft meat of his thigh, before it slides to where he needs it most. 

Hux’s lip trembles as he’s stroked, broad _alpha_ hand touching him from his slim cock all the way to where his rear rests against the sheets. He can smell his own slick as it blends with Ren’s sweat and musk as he kisses Hux’s neck and— _oh_ _stars_ —

He’s losing himself. The heat is too much with Ren stoking it. The fever continues uncontrolled, laying waste to his body, his pitiful, _weak_ body that he’s struggled so much against and he’s—he’s _losing_ —

Soon the boundaries of the room Hux can still make out fall out of existence, consumed in fuzzy darkness as his world woefully shrinks to only the ruffling cool of the bed beneath him and the body above him, holding him, keeping him down. He claws his hands out for something to hold onto, finding broad shoulders beneath his clammy palms and squeezing. A last, rough whine of fury grits between his teeth before he loses control completely, feeling it slide out of his grasp as Ren pushes him down into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you guys liked that. I'm really nervous about sharing it but I hope it was at least...intriguing? Let me know what you think though, please! I love comments. 
> 
> Also if anyone's interested, I'm on [tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7)! I want to try to branch out a little more in the fandom and would love to chat. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I kind of feel like people think this fic is going in a different direction than I intended it to. The self hate issues from the first chapter aren't exactly going to go away with this one, in fact they're probably going to intensify as Hux deals with the aftermath of the heat and what that's changed for himself and Ren. Things wont wrap up very neatly just yet, there's a lot of messy feelings and issues that come with Hux dealing with all this as a self hating omega and how that impacts his need to always be in control of himself and not let others have power over him. Essentially...heed the tags I've already put on this fic because they still come into play. 
> 
> So if all that's still okay with you guys, read on, and I hope this ends up being a little bit interesting.

Any moments of clarity Hux has fade as quickly as they come, his mind unable to cling tightly enough to his surroundings to make sense of them.

The only thing he can feel are vague physical sensations. He can feel the crinkle of the bedsheets under his back, cradling his body all the way down to the midpoint of his spine, where it lifts off into the air. He feels a general lack of stability, a floatiness in his mind, like it’s become dislodged from his body and left to drift in the void of space.

Hux can feel something caked under his fingernails, pushing up against them between the nail and the bed. It’s uncomfortable, but almost everything is uncomfortable right now. He’s not sure why he’s focusing on his fingernails, the littlest points of his person, but he stares at where they dig against a large, flecked shoulder taking up most of his vision.  

“ _Ah_ —“ Hux tries to speak, but his body suddenly rocks, like he’s commanding the bridge during an assault, forces beyond his control sending him further off balance. It forces him to cling more tightly to the mass looming over him, the only bit of ballast he has amidst this confusing sea of numbness and heat.

There’s an unusual fullness in his hips and stomach, like someone’s decided to inflate a balloon of flesh there, press it out against his most intimate parts. Hux hears himself whimper, and he can’t determine whether it sounds pained or pleasured. He can’t comprehend if he actually enjoys the presence inside of him or if he’s merely going along with it or because he’s in a state of mind where he can’t _not_.

Hux clings tighter, at a loss for what else to do, until the rocking finally stops and the presence inside of him suddenly dilates, his brain momentarily whiting out thanks to the sudden wash of pressure and sensation. It could be pleasant, maybe, if Hux could even understand why it was there.

His own panting sounds reedy and weak in his ears, and something moves his body, sliding it onto its side and lifting Hux’s leg to rest atop a jut of hip. The motion spreads his thighs out, and he becomes intimately conscious of a thick, warm object stuck in his hole, penetrated deep within him.

Through bleary eyes Hux realizes he’s fully naked, and that there’s another presence beside him, another body. He doesn’t even recall the last time someone other than a medical officer saw him naked. And that was _years_ ago, he’s switched over since then. Lately it’s only been the droids, who—

—the _implant_. That was why. That’s why he’s like this. His implant failed, and that’s why—he’s in heat.

A little whine escapes his lips, and the alpha beside him suddenly shifts. Softness presses against his cheek, right beside his mouth.

“…Took care of you…” is all Hux can make out before coherency slips away from him again.

* * *

The next time Hux comes to, the heat is again focused in his brain, its tension building like a compressed sun.

But the fullness in his stomach and hips is missing, that confusing presence lessened. Part of himself breathes a sigh of relief, even as his chest twist in longing. Strange or not, he’d almost rather have that sensation than the present ache in his head, throbbing like a second heart between his eyes. He tries to move his distress from his chest to his lips but it catches on the parched shaft of his throat.

For a moment it feels like he can’t breathe, panicking spiking up inside him. His limbs are too weak to move, to even grab at his struggling airway, so he merely writhes, hoping it’ll invite the presence that tended to him beforehand—though he doesn’t want it inside him _, no_ , not again. Or—or does he?

Hux coughs, his throat smarting. He can hears muted noise from around him, but it hurts to try to open his eyes, like he’s right in the thick of a pulsing migraine.

The curve of something hard and cold suddenly presses up to his lips and sends an involuntary shiver through his body. He moans at the contrast, unsure if he finds it relieving or not.

The back of his head suddenly rests against something firmer than the bed, and it _moves_ , stroking blunt points of sensation anxiously through his hair. His chin tilts slightly towards his chest and the object against his lip shifts, tipping cool fluid into his mouth.

His throat twitches, struggling to swallow all of it as it rushes into his mouth. He chokes a little, letting the excess dribble down his chin and onto his chest. It feels nice there, but he wishes he had more.

Fingers brush against his lower lip, wiping away the remaining liquid. Something murmurs above him, but it’s still too indistinct—or Hux himself too addled to understand it—so he doesn’t bother worrying about what it might’ve said. The fingers, still damp with the water that trickled from his lips, move up to his forehead, right where the ache throbs most, and carefully strokes it.

Hux shudders as the liquid works its way through his system, settling in his belly and spreading outwards, fighting the heat that’s made its home there. It’s almost _too_ cold now. Didn’t something used to surround him—heavy and warm and _comforting_ , draped around his shoulders and cinched about his waist?

He falls out of awareness just as pressure returns to his hips.

* * *

Hux can’t deal with this much longer.

It’s starting to _hurt_ , both the need roiling inside of him and the way it’s getting dealt with. He feels nails rake into his hips, teeth at his neck, even once a slick mouth consuming the slim length of his cock, but to him it’s nothing more than a brief distraction, a superficial wound in the side of the heat wrapped around him, constricting him.

But it’s not just the physical sensations that are driving him mad, that constantly fail to fully sate the bottomless desire within him—there’s _emotions_ too, foreign protrusions into his mind, helplessly leached out from the presence that keeps him pinned, endlessly caught in the cycle of fucking.

The murmurs from the other body have grown stronger, _louder_ , but what’s more they’ve buried _deeper_ , wending with his own thoughts and feelings until Hux can hardly parse the difference.

The words from before speak _inside_ him now, just like the weight and pressure of _alpha_ and it’s too much for Hux to bear, not when he’s already born so much upon his miserable body. He shakes as the strange emotions swell with crescendo, just as the feeling inside him blossomed to near unbearable. A pained gasp rips from his throat, and as soaking warmth and the torment of orgasm it turns into a shriek. He curls into himself and grips at his own hair with both hands, nails digging into his scalp as his own cries reverberate back into his ears.

Some small comfort nips at his ear, filling it with soft words that he knows must be spoken, rather than fed into his brain, but Hux can’t decide if it makes him sick or not before he’s forgetting where he is again.

He hates this though, he thinks. He hates the heat still pulsing through him, never sated, never surrendering, like black flames pushing out from a white-hot center. He wants it gone, eradicated, but it’s like a living thing inside of him, sucking him dry as it feeds off its own lust, a pulsing mass of perpetual motion. He hasn’t the energy to scream or cry and instead digs his fingers into the soft meat of his belly and _pulls_.

Pain spikes up from his abdomen, and it’s almost enough to penetrate through the fog fouling up his mind but it falters, still too weak, so Hux finds himself reduced to sobbing, his own tears burning with the heat on his cheeks.

“Hux.“ Hands grab his wrists, hold him still. “Come on, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

 _Good_ , is all he can think in return. If it means he can rip this insufferable agony out from inside of him, then he invites it. Momentary pain to neuter a lifetime of suffering, to free himself of the wicked coils of this _heat_.

He can’t handle even the thought of going through this ever again.

Hux feels the pace of his breathing shoot to new, unmanageable rate, half-believing if he breathes harsh and shallow enough he might be granted a reprieve of unconsciousness, until this is all over. But the presence won’t let him—it puts a hand on his chest and lips near his hyperventilating mouth, and there’s that feeling in his head again, that prickling like water trickling through the tight whorls of his brain.

Hux doesn’t want to calm down, not thanks to some outsider, some _violator_ wanting to control his feelings, his _body_ , but despite this the persistent pressure on his chest, the way it guides his breathing to a more measured pace, slowly dispels his panic. Hux whimpers, head thumping back against the pillow as he’s forced to relax, to acquiesce to the might and sounder mind of the man above him, with his ruffled black hair and deep, sympathetic eyes.

Hux can’t stop himself as he lifts a hand, numb fingers caressing a soft cheek before he grasps it, hanging on.

There’s even more flesh stuck under his fingernails now, so deeply he knows won’t ever be able to get it all out.  

* * *

When Hux finally wakes—lucid, finally cognizant of his surroundings—it’s because of the pain.

It throbs mostly intensely below the waist, and for a couple moments spent rapidly blinking his eyelids against the dimmed lighting of his bedroom, seeking out familiar shapes, he doesn’t remember why. But then he tries to turn, and becomes aware of both _where_ exactly the pain is coming from, and the weight of something long and warm draped over his torso.

Hux moves carefully, as if maneuvering through a series of weight-triggered traps, until he lies partially on his back. He turns his head, finally catching a glimpse of who is holding him—though his slowly returning memory makes it less of a surprise.

Ren sleeps beside him, face deceptively calm, hair flurried about both stuck to the bed and raised slightly in the air. He looks even more youthful in rest, pink lips wet slightly with drool and eyelashes a little too long for a man, especially an alpha. Hux knows this is all he’ll see now, whether he wants to or not, when he looks at Ren’s impassive mask.

 _So much has been uprooted in such short time._ Hux shivers, suddenly more aware of the chill in his bedroom, and looks down, horrified to find pale skin, in two different shades, pressed up against one another.

He’s naked. They’re _both_ naked.

Hux turns away from Ren, back to the faceless gray wall of his bedroom. His mind races. He can’t process this.

Too many emotions are clustering inside of Hux’s chest, beating against his ribs like the pulse of his own swelling heart. His skin and muscles feels too tight and, unable to contain himself, he starts to sob.

It’s dry at first, all moisture in his body busy other places he doesn’t want to think about. His throat twitches, rough with the echo of old cries.  A couple of tears finally manage to squeeze out the corners of his eyes, the delicate skin there sore and slightly crusted. He rubs at his face, smothering his weak sobbing in his palms. His composure dissolving—his dignity, stripped from him, ripped and scattered so far in every direction he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get it all back.

One of the louder sobs manages to slip through his fingers, causing Ren to shift behind him. Hux freezes as the alpha mumbles, his breathing warm against the back of his neck. He stays still, heart palpitating like that of hiding prey, counting the seconds of silence and stillness that follows until he’s satisfied Ren hasn’t woken up.

It’s another couple minutes before Hux dares to move again, desperate to get the alpha’s arm off of him. Gingerly, he cups Ren’s wrist, lifting it from where it rests over his ribs. He moves it in millimeter increments, like he’s supervising some delicate experiment, before folding it to rest on one of the crumpled pillows as he shifts away from Ren, finally free.

Still, Hux keeps quiet, cautious of even the volume of his breathing, almost expecting Ren’s arm to shoot out once more and drag him back, but it doesn’t. He counts another minute, before carefully sitting up. The blood inside him pools in different places, and for a moment he feels woozy, tempted to lay back down, but he resists.

Hux racks his brain for scraps of recollection that he could piece together into a complete picture, something to help steady him as he struggles to recover his composure. But his memory is fleeting, nothing more than a milieu of vague colors, shapes, smells, and worst of all _sensations_ he would just rather forget. He can’t rely on it—he needs concrete information.

Hux reaches for the data pad that hangs off the edge of the nightstand, accidentally jabbing the screen so hard his finger smarts, but he forgets all about the pain when his eyes fall upon the date and time. He lets the pad fall from his fingers, soft _clatter_ luckily not awaking the alpha lying besides him. A very, very minor, almost insignificant consolation, only granted to him by the universe because any more malfeasances might come across as _too_ pathetic.

Hux crawls his fingers against his upper arms, hugging himself tight.

 _Stars_ , he’s lost _days_ , he—how could he ever count all the things he’s lost?

Ren snuffles behind him, still graciously caught in sleep, but the sound sends a stab of anxiety into Hux’s heart. He hasn’t any idea what to do, but he absolutely _cannot_ face Ren when he wakes up. So he braces his hand against the edge of the nightstand and, as quietly and carefully as he can muster, pulls himself up.

Hux tries his his best not to disturb anything more atop the nightstand even as he uses it to leverage most of his unsteady weight. After a moment of acclimating to the weight on his feet he pushes away from the bed, teeth gritted tight against the whimper of pain as his stiff legs and sore hips struggle to support even his slight body.

Hux manages to stumble into the refresher before his legs give out, sending him crashing on all fours against the hard floor. He hisses as the impact reverberates through his knees, butt of his palms trembling as he pushes himself up and sits, one forearm wrapped around his heaving chest.

Wet warmth tries to spring back to his eyes, summoned by the pain in his knees, but Hux staves it off. He hisses violently through his gritted teeth until it fades to a dull ache, and blinks the tears in the corners of his eyes away until they’re again buried deep inside him. He needs to show some strength after days of weakness.

The refresher looks pristine, from its clinical tiles all the way up to the mirror Hux keeps free of any of the flecks from his dental and self-care products. So many times, Hux had stood in this very spot, preening his looks to his satisfaction, never considering he might one day sit—shivering and pathetic, unable to even pick himself up off the floor.

Hux doesn’t want to see himself. He knows he needs to take stock of what’s been done to him, how best to address the aftermath of his heat, but he can’t bring himself to rise up, to assume the place in front of the mirror and be forced to confront his current derangement against who he really is.

He grabs a towel from the rack, the terrycloth already damp from use and as much as that makes him think of _who_ had used his refresher he pulls it down on top of him. The utilitarian softness of the towel drapes about his shoulders and down over his back, providing a sliver of comfort and protection around his trembling form. It’s a little rough in places—places he doesn’t want to consider, like his neck and shoulder and the backs of his thighs—but he clutches the towel tight around himself all the same.

If only he could lift himself up to the shower. He would use real water this time, incessant and scalding, to burn the traces from his body, to turn his head away as they swirled down into the drain between his feet. He wishes his arms had strength left but they only wrap around him—trembling, _useless_.

After a couple minutes of heavy breathing, Hux decides to bite the bullet and finally try to take inventory of himself and tend to any injuries he might have incurred. It hurts to move much but he tries to stretch out his legs, biting his lip as he fights against the stiffness, as if he’s sat in a cockpit for far too long. His slim feet slide out across the refresher floor, and for a moment Hux feels hopeful when his calves are bare apart from a fine dusting of ginger hair.

But as his eyes travel above the knee, splotches of red and purple begin to discolor his skin, like symptoms of some terrible disease. And they only grow deeper, refined with more noticeable teeth marks, as he scans over his thighs. A particularly gruesome bruise brands the spot where his leg meets his hip, blossoming outwards in red and yellow from a purpling center, like a sick artist’s rendition of a nebula.

Hux puts a hand to his belly, noxious feelings roiling inside of him. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, to center himself once more. The sight of his body, defiled and alien, is quickly sending him into some kind of attack, and he _can’t_ have that, he can’t concede to weakness again after already letting himself be plundered so thoroughly.

He tries to feel the marks on his torso and chest with his hands, too shaken to look down and see the extent of the damage. There’s more tender flesh on his hips, then long marks of claw on his belly—those, he remembers, are self-inflicted, though all these others are _also_ his fault, he can’t escape the blame for their existence, even if Ren put them there—and his nipples feel soft and swollen, even in the cold of the refresher. There’s a ring of teeth around one of them, and a prick of scabbing on his collarbone.

Though he feels he would already know if Ren had dared, he checks the back of his neck anyway. His shoulders uncoil with slight relief when he finds his bonding gland clean and unbitten, though his fingers glance over wet marks _around_ the site, left like those of a child nibbling the outside of a treat they know they’re not supposed to have.  

The fact that he’s remained un-bonded is good. _Very_ good. But it’s hard for Hux to celebrate it much, with his body in its current state, with the knowledge of what’s been done to him.

It’s over, but it’s _not_.

The heat has largely faded from his body, shrunk to a slight tingling in his pelvis and soreness in his muscles. He struggles between his need to sleep and his want to pull himself back together and _forget_ , but neither are possible with Ren in his bed, blissfully unconscious of everything he’s done to Hux, everything he’s _destroyed_.

He wants nothing more than to escape, but he can’t bear the thought of going back in that room, not even to find his discarded clothing or his data pad. Has anyone even been informed of his absence? How is the _Finalizer_ still intact, still awaiting in orbit without his supervision. He breathes heavily, trying to cope with the surge of anxiety, the discomfort he feels in his own ravaged body.

He’d spent the past few days being—being _fucked_ , fucked like a brainless omega who craves only cock and knot and pleasure, while the galaxy continued on without him. Hux knows how ravenous his fellow generals are, each vying for his spot, his favor with Snoke, his control over Starkiller, and each moment he stays here cowering in his own refresher the probability that he’ll lose everything he’s snatched for himself only increases. All lost, all thanks to his inability to control the hungers of his type.

Hux can remember the way he moaned, pierced at the end of Ren’s cock, and it disgusts him.

His wretched body had _allowed_ that. It’d derived _pleasure_ from such despoilment, with his rationale completely fled and left to float in limbo, only returned _now_ so Hux can suffer in the aftermath.

Part of him wishes he could just fall back into that state, now that he’s already been _ruined_ —what’s the point of conscious thought anymore?

 _No, no_. Hux, he—he won’t let this _mishap_ get the better of him. He’s better than this, he knows he is.

The door to the refresher _clicks_ , and Hux reacts instantaneously—unable to properly rise to full height he pushes his feet against the floor and moves himself back, _away_ , underneath the hang of the sink as if a mere square of porcelain could hide a fully grown man.

And indeed, when Ren enters the room his eyes fall upon Hux effortlessly, and they lock glances for a brief moment before Hux’s ducks away, the sight of those deep brown pits filling him with fear and sickness and—something else, _maybe_ , but Hux can’t bare to think about it right now. His fingers clench tighter into the towel around him, pulling it so flush against his shoulders the cloth might rip.

His lips open, trying to remember how to produce sound. Something that is nothing at all like what he did in the throes of heat, something coherent and commanding, something becoming of the Order’s eminent general and not a debauched _animal_.  

Yet he still says nothing—he _cowers_ , like a lowly, scared child, beneath his own sink. Backed into hiding by _Ren_ , who still lingers despite the fact that he’s surely satisfied his lust by now. Unless he wants to force Hux to bear the burden of mating now that he’s _fully_ conscious, just to be cruel, to inexorably brand the memory into the general’s brain so he can never hope to deny it.

Ren blinks slowly, adjusting to the brighter light of the refresher. His hair is more straggly than Hux remembers, unwashed and matted with sweat. Thankfully he’s not stark naked, a pair of black briefs hastily tugged back over his hips.

“Hux. Get out from under there,” Ren says, eyebrows dipping in confusion. He takes a proper step into the refresher, bare feet padding audibly against the tile. Hux’s heart jolts painfully as the door drifts shut behind him, trapping them together. Hux opens his lips, but finds himself still unable to muster his voice, so instead of letting out an undignified whine or moan, he merely shakes his head.

Ren’s confusion deepens, looking like a dog slapped away from food. He takes another step.

“You should be resting,” he lowers his voice, eyes scanning over Hux’s legs. He quickly pulls them to his chest, wrapping his hands around his knees. It’s a reactive, slightly pathetic response, but he wants Ren to see as little of him as possible. The alpha sighs.

“Please—“

“N-no. Get away from me,” Hux croaks, finally recovering a bit of his voice, “haven’t you...haven’t you done enough?”

It’s Ren who started this, after all, throwing Hux’s world completely off-kilter and forcing him into this state of degradation because he couldn’t bear to leave the general to deal with it on his own. He is, and always has been, an unpredictable variable, a source of ruination to man and machinery alike. If Hux is to pull himself back together with any dignity, he needs Ren _gone_. He can’t focus with the alpha here, towering over him. Making him unable to stand and barely able to speak.  

“Come. You’re still going to be in a vulnerable state of mind after a heat.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know you should come back to bed. It’s warmer there. You’ll feel safe.”

“ _No_ ,” Hux repeats, biting on the word. His nails dig into the thin skin stretched over his kneecaps.

Ren’s shoulders sag slightly, and Hux hopes he finally give up, but to his dismay Ren sinks all the way into a crouch, still keeping a bit of space between them even though now they can see each other better.

“You’re going to stay on the refresher floor for the rest of the cycle then?”

“Of course not. Only until you leave me be.”

“I’m not leaving.” Ren probably doesn’t mean it, but to Hux it sounds like a threat. He shivers under the towel.

“Like the stars you aren’t. Stop trying to take care of me.”

“Why? I’ve,” Ren stops to wet his lips, “ _taken care_ of you for the past three days, Hux. Why should that stop now, especially while you still need my help?”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Hux protests, voice growling at the edges. Ren dares to remind him of everything he’s done, and still expects him to accept his “help?” As far as Hux is concerned, the alpha has _helped_ enough. The evidence of it lies scattered all over his body, _inside_ him, and Hux finds it vile and unwanted.

“You’re an omega,” Ren states, and the ease with which he says it, like some irrefutable _fact_ has Hux’s stomach roiling, “you nearly killed yourself trying to deal with the heat on your own. Don’t continue to deny your needs or you’ll end up in that same position again.”

“Oh, come off it Ren,” Hux snaps, fingers digging tighter into his knees, “I’m no fool. This is much more about your _own_ needs than any of mine.”

 _Of course_ Ren wants him in the bed. The bed is where he’s submissive, where he’s not at all himself. Ren wants him the way he was in his heat, wrapped up and suffocating in the sheets, dripping and breathless with vacant desire. In the bed is the only place Ren can have him, so _naturally_ he wants him back there.

Well, Hux won’t go. As soon as Ren’s gone, he’s burning it and ordering a new one. It’s the closest he can get to completely switching out his body.

“You really think I’m doing this for me?” Ren murmurs, after a long moment of silence spent waiting to see if Hux would fill it. “I’m not. You needed help. You _still_ need help, and I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

“Is that it, then? You think after fucking me, you have some _right_ to me? Some obligation? That it’s up to you to care for me, just because you—“ Hux gags a little on the gumminess in the back of his throat, unable or unwilling to finish. He crosses his ankles one over another, clenching his lower belly defensively.

“...You think I’m some tramp, correct? Some prize for you to _claim_ until you decide to break and be done with me?” Hux finishes, wishing that it could be the end of the conversation. But of course, Ren keeps talking, trying to _defend_ his actions, his inimical intrusion into Hux’s life.

“That’s not true. You have no idea what I think.”

“I don’t need to have telepathy like yours to know how _alphas_ think,” Hux corrects, “your kind _delights_ in subjecting mine.”

Hux almost never speaks of himself as an _omega_ , and he in his mind he subsequently scolds his own slip-up. He’s _not_ an omega. He’s not defined by his type, no matter what kind of accidents he’s suffered.

“No. I don’t know what kind of alphas you’ve been around. But it’s not always like that.”

Hux rolls his eyes pointedly away from Ren. He would’ve never expected him to believe such foolish lies, or expect _Hux_ to believe them. He knows Ren is human now, _obviously_ , not just a machine fed Snoke’s script, but Hux still has no idea about where he came from, how he was raised. Perhaps he hails from a deluded little planet that blithely celebrates equality between alphas and omegas. But Hux knows how most of the galaxy works, how the _Order_ works. Far better than Ren does, the hapless, sex-crazed little fool.

“Alphas are proud. Aggressive. Obstinate. They would never cow to anybody, much less someone they view as lesser. Have you not noticed how few reside within the Orders ranks, in comparison?” Hux wouldn’t put that past him. Ren never seemed interested in much beside his own goals, and how those around him might further them.

“That’s not the case. I must’ve scented some omegas in my time here,” Ren asserts. To Hux, it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as he racks his brain. “Why shut out a third of the viable population? That wouldn’t happen. You’re just upset.”

“I’m not _hysterical_.” Hux closes his eyes and breathes out. “If you think, that, you really _don’t_ understand what I’ve dealt with.”

 _Of course he doesn’t._ Hux shouldn’t have expected anything different from him. After all, Ren has never had to war with his type the way Hux had. Alphas were destined from birth for dominance and power—all but guaranteed a spot atop the social hierarchy as long as they were willing to fight others for it. Even if Ren denies it, Hux knows he _must_ believe it his birthright to have an omega beneath him, taking his knot and bearing his children. And because of that, he won’t ever be able to understand how much his actions have _wrecked_ Hux.

His lower lip wobbles as he opens his eyes away from Ren, unable to look at him for a moment longer. He fixes his gaze upon a silvery spot of grout running along one of the tiles, suddenly overwhelmed by thoughts of his future, now that Ren’s uncovered his secret.

Demotion and discharge are a given, but it could get even worse. Punishment will be ordered for his perception, and who knows how creative and lurid it could get. Perhaps he’ll be used as a broodmare for the Order— victim of endless breeding to fuel the dawn of the Empire he dreamed he’d one day help create. After all, once it gets out that he’s an omega, he’ll lose all clout he had as a general, with no further use beyond his reproductive capacity, right?  

Hux’s breath hitches in his chest.

_No. Never._

He will chew into his own tongue and drown in blood right here if that’s to be his fate.

“Hux...if you think I don’t understand, then help me to.” Ren leans forward, placing one palm on the refresher floor. “I know how I feel. I want to understand you.”

Hux squints his eyes at him. Ren is acting so kind for an alpha. _Why_? What could he possibly gain from such deception? He already got what he wanted from Hux, the pleasure of desecrating him _first_ , so why? Does he need more proof of Hux’s shame? If so, why hadn’t he taken holos of his prize when Hux was unconscious or something to that effect, spread them around the _Finalizer_ , bury his rival’s dignity for good? He could’ve done it. He could do it _now_ , as Hux lies hunched and retrogressed beneath his own sink.

He’s not, though. Leaving Hux confused as to what Ren _is_ doing.

“Omegas are _used_. I don’t wish to be used. What else is there to understand?”

“But it’s killing you, suppressing this so viciously. It’s unnecessary.” Ren brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. “You’re better than this.”

Hux _is_ better than all this, but not in the way Ren apparently thinks.

“I don’t know how much of it you remember,” the alpha breathes, “but you were so perfect in your heat, once you let me take care of you. So responsive. Needing my touch. Completely unfettered, unlike anything I’ve ever sensed from you.”

Ren’s voice is utterly naked with joy, the words spilling out of him.

“You made me feel things I’ve never felt before. I was _mad_ with want, but in the best, most sublime way possible.”

His fingers brush up against the frayed edges of the cloth tied around Hux’s wrist, as he if he wants to refresh the now stale scent clinging to it, with the ardent musk now rolling off of him.

“You _radiated_ , Hux. Before you were diminishing, _dying_ , but when we—your feelings filled every inch of space inside me, _outside_ me, grew brighter, more—“

“ _Enough_.”

Hux coughs away the quavering in his voice, before raising a finger and jabbing it right at Ren’s nose.

“I don’t want to hear any more about your—your _pleasure_. I swear on the stars, you will never get to enjoy anything like _that_ ever again.” He gestures down to his scratched middle with his free hand. “This… _problem_ will be taken care of before it comes back.”

Hux will face the medbay if he has to, if it means he never again has to hear Ren wax so esoterically about how he’d _submitted,_ become a beast so unlike himself. He’ll find a way to erase any subsequent record of his type as soon as they’ve finished ridding him of this miserable omega biology. Anything Ren enjoyed, any trace of the alpha still inside him. All of it— _gone_.

Ren’s face falls.

“That’s extreme and unnecessary and you know it,” he argues. “There’s no need to go to such lengths.”

“I can do whatever I wish with _my_ body, Ren,” Hux spits, curling his finger back into his fist. “You think because you’ve fucked me now you have a say? I owe you _nothing_. What happened between us is _nothing_.”

“Nothing? Nothing, all because you hate being an omega?”

The _word_ still prickles unpleasantly on Hux’s neck. He grimaces at it, hearing it on Ren’s tongue, like a brand in his ears.

“Stop saying that.”

“What’s wrong with saying it? It’s who you are, you don’t have to—“

“It’s not who I am!” Hux slams his fist against the floor beneath him, pain splintering through his injured wrist. Angry breath puffs through his lips, eyes leveling at Ren. The alpha looks a little taken aback, shoulders instinctively rounding as if shielding himself from Hux’s outburst. He should be happy, to see Ren shirking, but little gives Hux satisfaction with the word _omega_ festering inside him. He shifts in place, accidentally putting too much weight on his injured wrist, and can’t suppress the little wince that hisses between his teeth.

Ren’s dark eyes switch to the black fabric wrapped about Hux’s forearm, as if suddenly remembering it exists. Hux follows his gaze briefly, before he looks back at Ren. He’s so soft, despite the contentious air between them—Hux doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to such softness. He’ll see it all the time now, even through the mask.

When Ren finally moves, he moves slowly, as if expecting Hux to strike out and scratch him again, like he’d done the last time he was lucid and Ren had drawn too close. The marks on his cheek are still a little inflamed, scabs where it’d bled tightened a little against the unblemished skin. They could’ve been easily healed by bacta if it had been applied quick enough, but now it’s too late and they’ll last a lot longer than they should’ve. Hux knows he has some strips in his medicine cabinet, had Ren even thought to look there?

Or had he been too occupied?

Even with such reminders slashed into his cheek Ren reaches for Hux, fingers brushing up against his hand. He clenches it into a fist but doesn’t pull away as Ren lifts it up off the floor, holding his wrist just below where the piece of his cowl knots around, bringing Hux’s weight off of it. Ren’s thumb rests at the little dip of bones beneath his thin skin, right at the joint.

“There’s nothing wrong with being an omega.” When Ren speaks again, it’s low and a little contemplative, as if he can divine something from the terrain in Hux’s hand. “It doesn’t make anyone lesser. It doesn’t make _you_ weak.”

Hux watches Ren cradle his wrist, his other hand now coming up to join it in a reverent little gesture—like a parched man, cupping a blessed mouthful of water—that Hux isn’t sure what to think about. It’s bizarre how staunchly he sticks to this fatuous idea of an omega’s inherent worth, despite Hux’s best efforts to bring him into reality.

Naïveté is not something he would’ve ever expected from a volatile Force-user, and it’s hard to believe the alpha he clashed with whenever they were unfortunate enough to meet is the same as the young man that sits before him, half naked on the refresher floor, struggling to wrap his mind around the steep gulfs between the endotypes. He doesn’t understand how Ren can be Snoke’s apprentice—bathed in darkness, luxuriating in hate and anger—and still say and believe such weak, _soft_ things. An alpha like Ren should never deign to pity those beneath him—and yet he _is_.

“You really think that being an omega doesn’t make one weak?” Hux says, entertaining his fallacy for a moment.

“I don’t.”

“Then you truly are mad as I figured you were.” Hux slumps back against the base of the sink. “For one, an omega cannot be a general of the Order.”

“According to whom? Who’s poisoned you against your own nature?” Ren growls, anger glistening in the depths of his eyes, “Give me a name and I will take their head for their disrespect.”

The threat of violent retribution almost makes this all seem normal between them, and if Hux were in better spirits he might entertain a laugh. But he only shakes his head, because it would be easy if there was only _one_ culprit, and not a lifetime of adverse reinforcement, of congenital inferiority.

“Nobody needs to say it. It’s the truth. Something inescapable.” Hux swallows woefully, skull up against the cold porcelain. “This is the only way I’ve been able to avoid it, hiding myself, suppressing my heats, and it’s been ruined by you.”

The accusation feels less gratifying than all the other ones that have come before it. It felt more cathartic, earlier, to insult Ren. This time, Hux really feels the hurt levied in his direction thanks to the alpha’s expression.

“I…I didn’t mean to do that. Ruin you?” Ren continues, with more of a plea in his voice than Hux had ever heard from him. “I don’t think you’re ruined. That…it was beautiful, the swell of your feelings in the Force as we came together. Even when it was hard, when your heat burned so brightly it hurt, you persisted. I know you don’t believe me…I could keep showing you how perfect, how _strong_ this side of you can truly be.”

There’s genuine emotion springing to the surface in Ren’s face, weaving into his admission, but to Hux what he says still sounds like a lie, it’s so contrary to everything he’s heard his entire life. Omegas may be beautiful, yes—but only as ornaments, valued only as _things_ in the possession of others, used to parade status and claim. Ren seems to be attaching something _more_ to beauty here than that, which is false. Moreover Hux has never considered himself _beautiful_ , neither in the shallow sense nor the one Ren is suggesting. He needs a certain aesthetic to show off his authority, but otherwise he has no use for them. He’s a hardened _general_ , after all, meant to lead chiefly through intelligence and ambition. Ren’s a fool to find anything as asinine as beauty in all that.

“Please, Hux,” Ren brings him out of his internal musings, “I want you to understand why I wanted you so badly. Why I _still_ want you.”

“But you want the parts of me I despise the most,” Hux says, trying for bitterness though he sounds less sharp than he’d like. Frankly, he feels a little exhausted at this point. He wishes he could fall back asleep, but even the kindest words from Ren can’t make Hux relax enough to trust his presence within his quarters, and if he’s adamant on staying, there’s not much he can do but keep awake.

So Ren, apparently, decides to move beyond just words.

He sits on his heels and tilts his chin up as he cranes his neck back, exposing more of his throat to Hux’s eyes. It’s a familiar gesture, though Hux can’t recall if he’s ever seen someone perform it personally—he knows it from overly-sappy holodramas, full of bombastic proclamations of love and idealized, _false_ relationships between alphas and omegas. Hux considers it something of a fantasy—he knows most alphas wouldn’t dare bear _their_ neck to an omega, preferring to merely take and take, relishing in their favored position within an inherently unequal relationship.

He doesn’t know what to make of Ren doing it for him. He uncurls his legs a little bit, peering curiously over his knees at him.

“What are you doing?” He finally decides to ask.

“Will you feel better if I let you bite me?”

“ _What_?”

“I want you to bite me, here.” Ren points, just to the side of his windpipe, where his skin dips in slightly. Right where his blood pulses closest to the surface.

“Why?” Hux asks, suspicious of his motive.

“You’re covered in my marks. From head to toe.” Hux glares, really not needing the reminder when his bod still stings, but listens as Ren continues. “It seems only right for you to claim one of your own. When you’re in a clearer mind.”

It’s such a bizarre offer Hux is tempted to reject it outright just for the sake of his own pride. Part of him would far prefer keeping as far away from Ren as possible, even if he’s purposefully trying to show his vulnerability, to sway Hux into believing him via such a symbolic gesture. It feels like a trap, like the bed, and a large part of Hux is too mistrustful to draw close, lest Ren grab him and pin him down again.

 _However_.

Ren’s neck shines pale under the light of the refresher, strong muscles flexing each time he swallows, like he’s nervous. Awaiting Hux’s response. Ren watches him, closes his eyes, then looks up to the ceiling. Trusting, in a way Hux is not—could never be, not when his enemies have always waited with bated breath for a moment of weakness.

Even as he is—even as an _omega_ —he knows he’s not weak.  

Hux’s legs protest as he leans forward, hands releasing his knees to grasp at Ren’s shoulders. He expects the alpha to resist him at least a little bit as he pushes him towards the side of the shower stall, but Ren _goes_ , his back digging into the cold trasparisteel. Hux pants from just that small effort, his lips parting in uncertainty as the towel falls from one of his shoulders, but just for a moment—the next he’s lunging forward open mouthed and bites Ren right on the throat.

And at once all the anguish, all the frustration, all the repressed _tears_ —all rush out of him in a great flood, drained into the force of his bite as he digs his fangs harder into Ren’s skin, the tips popping through and drawing blood that dances in a vindicated taste on his tongue.

He’s trembling from head to toe when he finally pulls his teeth out of Ren’s skin. His nails dig into the alpha’s shoulders as he looks at the swollen mark he’s left on the his neck—pulsing like another heart, pricked with beads of blood

A holorecord he read in his youth once claimed omegas had the sharpest fangs out of all the types. Hux had never believed it—after all, his were so _small_ , like nubby little pins more than anything else—but they’ve caused Ren to _bleed_ a fresh red, almost pink. It feels good to have made him bleed.

Hux finally lifts his eyes away from the bite when he realizes Ren is watching him, head slightly tilted to the side. Hux leans away from the neck, suddenly bashful of his own voracity, his willingness to _mark_ up another human, and an _alpha_ at that. Such carnality isn’t like him, but it feels so _satisfying_. As if he and Ren have finally been lifted to the same standing, despite their obvious differences, both inherent and learned.

Hux sits back against the floor, legs loosely bent out before him. Ren touches the fresh bite on his neck, the biggest spot of darkness on his body apart from his eyes. Hux imagines him with more—the image unexpectedly contenting.  

“Do you still want me to leave?” Ren asks, nonthreatening, genuinely giving him the choice.

“I…” Hux pauses for a moment, considering his answer. Shaking slightly.

“Yes. Please.”

In the silence that follows, Hux wonders if Ren will resist, but to his surprise, he obeys—something he hasn’t done since first he entered his quarters—and rises to his feet after lingering on an inhale for just a moment. Hux eyes move with him, following Ren who’s back to moving more like a shadow and less like a man until he slips out the door, letting it fall closed. Hux waits, listening through the walls, until the footsteps completely fade away and the telltale _swish_ of the main door seals him in near silence.

His heart beats in his ears, still drawing in the ghost of the alpha that’d been there just minutes before, still tasting the tang of his blood on his tongue. It takes awhile for it to sink in that he’s really, genuinely _alone_ now.

Hux finally believes he’s got the strength to take that shower.

Soon the pounding of the water, like a faint memory of rain, warms his skin and makes it a bit easier to scrub it free of built-up grime. He doesn’t watch it swirl into the drain, too caught in thought, rolling the taste of Ren around in his mouth. Once he’s clean he steps out of the shower, a hair revitalized.

Hux retrieves some bacta strips from the medicine cabinet, averting his eyes from the mirror as he sticks them onto his neck and chest, over the worst of the bites. Hux doesn’t have enough to cover them all, will have to request more, but he finds the minor bruises and scratches less upsetting than he had when he’d first woken up. He can most likely cope with them until they fade back into his skin.

Once Hux is completely dry and bandaged he swaps out the towel for his favorite robe hanging near the door, and though it’s not the hardier fabric of his uniform, it helps him feel more himself once it hangs over his frame and belts about his waist to hide more of his skin from his own view. Finally, after what feels like hours, Hux nudges open the door and shuffles out of the refresher.

The open air of his quarters feels less stifling than the warm condensation brought on by the shower, humming breeze of the life support systems cooling the droplets of water caught on his skin and hair. Suddenly part of Hux yearns for a warming cup of tea, to help soothe the aches that persist inside of him, but exhaustion pulls harder, so he shuffles back to his bedroom.

Ren’s smell still drapes over everything here, soaked into his sheets and pillows as if the intensity of the heat had turned it to liquid. Now that it’s faded a bit from the man’s departure, it’s less overwhelming. Perhaps Hux has just accustomed to it.

He steps over a mass of crumpled black sheet on the floor, darker in places with unknown stains. Hux grimaces. He thinks he won’t burn his bed after all, but some laundry service is certainly in order. Ren’s made a right mess of things, and if Hux is to return to his life as a general he needs them all smoothed out and properly organized. If his innermost sanctum is properly brought back into balance, it’ll make it far easier to move on from this.

Hux cocks his head in thought. It would be easy to summon the cleaning droid, and there isn’t _too_ much clutter. At most, it would take a couple minutes. Less, if he only wants his sheets pressed and lingering smell sucked out of the air.

Hux takes the data pad from the nightstand, thumb hovering above the screen, before he sets it back down. He sighs, crawling into bed and resting in the indent that Ren’s body left in the sheets, nose turned towards the pillow where his hair had once spilled. Hux raises the scrap of cowl wrapped around his bitten wrist, and, finding it pink and healing, lets it slip back into place.

_He’ll get it all done tomorrow._

* * *

Two cycles later and Hux is back in his rightful place on the bridge, uniform again slipped over his body, concealing all pale skin save his face in sleek, unyielding black.

Beneath the cuff of his right arm, he still feels the smart from his visit to the medbay. Despite his initial convictions, he hadn’t gone through with a proper ablation after all,  not after all potentially _troublesome_ tests had come back negative. Instead, he’d merely upgraded his implant, and the doctor, through profuse apologetics, had sworn her life upon its reliability. Hux figured, if it did end up failing again, he would have someone to properly take out his frustrations on, and that helped ease his concerns for the time being.

It will be difficult to tell if anything’s different until his next heat is scheduled to come around, but already Hux feels better. He’s had to order a new canister of pheromones, as it—along with one of his favorite black socks—had apparently gone missing in the chaos of the heat. In the meantime Hux has to use an old bottle of his former brand, and oddly enough it feels more comfortable, like a familiar blanket wrapped around his senses.

Mitaka—always the sagest among his lieutenants—had filed for sick leave on his behalf, and done his best to maintain order in the general’s absence. Thankfully, Hux runs the _Finalizer_ so efficiently it’s apparently able to continue in a semi-autonomous fashion without him, each component spinning with momentum even if the force behind it has been unexpectedly suspended.

Ren is gone, however. Mitaka informed him of his departure when he first came on shift. Hux tries not to feel anything about it—Ren has a mission to complete, after all, and surely Snoke won’t be pleased by the unexpected delay. He obviously can’t dally around the _Finalizer_ for long, and Hux is better for it. Now that he’s putting everything carefully back into place, he doesn’t need Ren around to disturb it all again with his unpredictability. Though, considering he’s not been stripped of his rank or unduly punished since returning, he can at least accept that Ren has decided to keep his secret.

For the time being.

Finally satisfied nothing has gone horribly wrong in his absence, Hux returns to his office and sits in his chair, opening his data pad. While Mitaka and some of his other officers have managed to keep to the course in his absence, there must be requisitions and communications that require his specific attention.

Just as he starts to scroll through his bursting inbox, a new message slides in at the top—from an unknown sender. Hux knits his brows. Occasionally, unregistered or unwanted mail gets sent his way, a problem easily fixed via contact to the officers that manage the security of the Order’s servers. His finger hovers over the delete button, but on a whim he decides to open it instead.

There’s nothing in the body of the message itself apart from a series of question marks, which feels a little too deliberate to be randomly generated spam. What’s more there’s two attachments—two photos, from the thumbnail, though he can’t quite make out what they are. Curiosity getting the better of him, he taps opens the first one.

To his surprise, it’s an analysis from the _Finalizer_ ’s research and development team, usually tasked to develop any alien substances for their biochemical capabilities. In the past, it’s synthesized some truly useful compounds from naturally occurring sources, from the innocuous and pedestrian to the deadly and serviceable in wartime. Hux can’t recall approving any new projects, however, and certainly if it were the department head messaging them he would’ve followed the proper format in addressing a commanding officer.

Hux is about to write it off as nonsense, when he scans what the exact product sent for analysis had been, and his heart stops.

_Synthetic pheromones - phenolic variant._

There’s a tiny picture of a black and red can next to the breakdown of its biocomponents. Hux recognizes it immediately as his missing container of pheromones, which sends sudden anxiety into his stomach. _How?_ How had his pheromones ended up in the hands of the Order’s researchers? Who even has the clearance or reason to snoop about in his quarters? _Why would they take something like that?_

Unless—unless someone is trying to _blackmail_ him. Someone who knows what he is—

Someone like _Ren_.

Suddenly anxious, Hux scans the notes scribbled by the technician at the bottom, glancing over more standard chemical components, looking for any clues at all until his eyes fall upon one in particular— _n_ _eflexian excreta cofactor._

Hux’s throat goes dry.

Neflexian is a notorious heat drug—known to _any_ omega. Even one as removed from his type as Hux is. Undetectable in a routine blood test, used to mimic symptoms—or induce heat in omegas about to cycle. A strong enough dose could possibly—

But wait. If it’s _Ren_ who stole his canister, why go through the process of sending it to Research and Development? He knows Hux is an omega, could ruin the general in an instant by merely inciting a rumor in the Order’s ranks, or by tattling to Snoke. Why go through the trouble?

And why were there heat drugs in his pheromones? If Ren was responsible, why had he just sent Hux information essentially incriminating him?

Unless it’s _not_ Ren. Unless everything he said to Hux in the refresher was _true_.

He closes out of the photo after saving it to his data pad, feeling his heart beat fast, wracking his brain past all the drama with Ren, to the first day his heat overtook him. How he’d liberally sprayed the pheromones all over his uniform, how they’d _smelled_ different, how he’d written it off as a change in the product. It would’ve been impossible for Ren to do it, he hadn’t known about Hux’s endotype _at all_ beforehand, only figuring it out once his heat had already begun. Unless he used his damned Force, but— _no_ , he’s under orders from Snoke not to play with the general’s mind, and someone with such a need to be validated as Ren wouldn’t risk upsetting his master.

 _But then who_? Hux feels blood rising in his face, both eager and angry. _Who is responsible_ _?_

Hux swipes over to the second attachment in hope of another clue, jabbing the data pad so hard with his finger it smarts. His body runs cold.

The second attachment is the photo from General Cantos’ official file, with what looks like a physical note pasted in near the bottom, reading, in a raggedy scrawl: _shipment intercepted on request, check handling records._

Hux sits back in his chair, suddenly feeling like his throbbing heart could lift him out of his seat. He lets the data pad clatter against the desk, and he brings his hand up to his head and presses his fingers against his temples.

 _Such an implication, even one as abstruse as this, could be considered treason_ , even from Ren, and especially for Hux if he acts upon it without authorization _._ The reasonable thing to do is report it to High Command, and allow them to engage in their own investigation. After all, there’s Starkiller to focus on, his own forces to command. The disastrous heat has passed, and he has a new implant to prevent further ones. He shouldn’t go chasing hunches that distract from his duties.

 _Who’s poisoned you against your own nature?_ And yet Ren echoes in his mind, his hand cradling Hux’s wrist, his eyes shimmering with dark sensitivity. _Give me their name and I will take their head for their disrespect._

Hux trails his hand down his face, fingers resting at his chin. He glances down to the data pad, where the attachment still lays open, the flat, unsuspecting eyes of the file photo looking back up at him. The face of an alpha who may have harmed him, exposed by another alpha who, despite Hux’s misgivings, holds a mad kind of regard for him. For that _omega_ side of him. Enough, at least, to set Hux upon the trail of the real culprit, putting blood in the air for him to sniff out.

Gradually, a smile spreads across his face—one as familiar as the fit of his uniform, that he adopts whenever a plan starts to concoct in the incisive depths of his mind.

Hux thinks he will pay a visit to General Cantos aboard the _Agonist_ once he has a break in his schedule. And perhaps, if he likes, Ren can come along as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I'm not sure this ended in a way people are going to like, and I'm sorry if it didn't. This is always the path I had planned out for this story, however. It does leave room for a potential followup, but that all depends on how I end up feeling about this as a whole and what people think. So, yeah. Hope it wasn't too bad. 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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